


Deleted scenes

by Eloise_C



Series: Sherlock Season 4 Fix-it [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Angst, Attempt at catharsis, Belts, Brat!Sherlock, Consensual Violence, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Humour, Implied/Referenced Torture, Johnlock - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Spanking, Strapping, Those Gentlemen, dark!Sherlock, dark!john, trash!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloise_C/pseuds/Eloise_C
Summary: Seven times Sherlock got spanked by John and zero time he didn't.Companion pieces to Burnt Bridges. This can be read as a standalone, but I recommend reading the main fic to understand the emotional context (TM).Hopefully, it doesn't read as indulgent as it felt writing it.





	1. Chapter 1

It happened on a Tuesday, mid morning, right after the weekly meeting at the surgery. Sherlock needed a dozen colostomy bags for no obvious reason. He’d texted John his request with the word “urgent” repeated three times, including one in all caps. John had told Sarah it was a matter of utmost secrecy as well as life and death, and promptly left the surgery, promising to return within one hour. 

John usually resented being summoned by Sherlock, but this time felt different. The last two occasions he’d been at the flat had ended up in 'controlled violence,' the bizarre attempt at catharsis they'd designed in the aftermath of Mary's death. It had felt good, very good, even. John couldn’t help feeling a tingle of trepidation at the thought of it. It was terribly wrong, of course, but then so was giggling at crime scenes and most of the things Sherlock and John did together. 

John walked briskly and arrived at his destination in under ten minutes as planned. What he didn’t expect, though, was to find Mrs Hudson opening the main door. 

‘John, lovely to see you!’ she said with a warm smile.

‘Good morning, Mrs Hudson,’ John answered, trying to hide the disgruntlement from his voice.

‘Are you here to see Sherlock?’

‘Yeah, he needed some medical supplies for—something.’

John followed Mrs Hudson into the building and headed towards the stairs.

‘I’d better be going,' he said, his hand on the handrail.

‘Time for a nice cup of tea,’ Mrs Hudson declared, lost in her thoughts. ‘Oh, I could bring some upstairs if you boys—’

‘No, no—that’s fine, thanks. I won’t be staying long.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m quite sure, thanks.’

John was half way up the stairs when Mrs Hudson’s voice caught up with him.

‘Do you think Sherlock would like a cuppa?’

Jesus Christ.

‘Not—if he’s in the middle of an experiment with colostomy bags. Bye, Mrs Hudson!'

Crisis averted.

John pushed the door to Sherlock’s flat without knocking.

‘Put them on the table,’ Sherlock said, in lieu of greetings. He was in the kitchen, looking into the eyepiece of his microscope. 

‘The bags, John,’ he added when John looked puzzled. 

‘Right, yeah.’

John did so, and started stretching his neck and shoulders mechanically. Lately, his muscles were often sore.

‘Anything I can do for you?’ Sherlock asked, scribbling in his notebook.

‘N—no. No.’ Was that it? John felt deflated. ‘So—so you’re all set, then?’

‘Mm.’

‘Okay.‘

Feeling as if he'd overstayed his welcome, John made to walk towards the door.

‘I heard you speaking with Mrs Hudson.’

‘Wh— Yeah, yeah. She’s—uh she's making tea.’

‘We’ll have to go to your old room, then.’

‘My old room?’

‘Yes, John. Controlled violence doesn’t sit well with the modern landlady. If she hears it, she’ll rush in brandishing some sort of blunt object. We simply can’t risk that.’

Sherlock finally looked up from whatever it is he was doing. A huge conniving grin illuminated his face. John chuckled, relief flowing through his veins. He also decided to make it a priority to chase the smile off Sherlock’s face by the time he was done with him.

John’s room was as tidy as he’d left it three years ago. It was a small bedroom with a single bed, a medium-sized wardrobe, and... no desk. John removed his jacket and put it on the bed, looking at Sherlock for directions.

‘As always, you see, but do not observe, John.’

Had Sherlock looked to provoke John, he wouldn’t have done anything differently. 

Fancy that, John thought.

‘Brave words for someone who’s about to get a smacking,’ he remarked, making an unnecessary show of unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up both his sleeves. ‘I will take your belt, now.’

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but he started unbuckling his leather belt. He then handed it to John, who placed it on the bed.

‘I observe that we have two options. Either I turn you over my knee, or you brace yourself against the wall.’

‘I’m not a petulant child,’ Sherlock countered, in a tone of voice in direct contradiction with its intended meaning.

'Go on, then.' John motioned towards the wall with his head.

In two strides, Sherlock was in front of the wall, raising his hands so they'd rest flat against it.

‘Arse out,’ John ordered.

Sherlock pushed out his posterior, taking a step back and spreading his feet apart for balance. 

The incongruity of the sight hit John. Nothing ever happens to me, all right, he thought to himself.

‘Are you planning on joining me?’ Sherlock asked after about ten seconds of John's continued immobility.

John walked up to Sherlock’s side.

‘Okay if I put my arm around your waist?’

‘Mm.’

It was an intimate gesture, but John didn’t mind.

‘Brace yourself,’ he said, slapping the centre of Sherlock’s arse with gusto. 

Sherlock flinched but didn’t break position.

John struck every inch of the surface presented to him, the smacks falling randomly but no less efficient. Like the last times, John found it strangely satisfying and liberating. 

After about a dozen slaps, Sherlock began squirming, but John pinned him in place and continued the onslaught on his arse. For the next minute or two, the loud slaps echoed in the room, along with Sherlock’s muffled gasps. Judging by the burn on John’s hand, the heat in Sherlock’s arse must be getting pretty uncomfortable, John thought. But he didn’t relent. 

Sherlock’s position combined with the jolts of the slaps, the lack of a belt and John’s grip on his waist caused his trousers to start sliding off. John pulled them up once, twice, until Sherlock said between two groans of pain ‘Never mind them.’

‘You sure?’ John asked without slowing down the stinging hits.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock answered, the tension audible in his cracked voice.

‘Off they come, then,’ John said. He released Sherlock’s waist and shook his buzzing hand to relieve the burn.

Sherlock removed his trousers and returned to the wall, his knuckles instantly turning white from their tight grip. 

‘Anything you want to say, Sherlock?'

‘No.’

Time for the grand finale, then. John picked up the belt from the bed and folded it in half, making sure the buckle end was securely in his hand. For this part, he couldn’t hold Sherlock anymore. They were both on their own. 

The first strike connected heavily with Sherlock’s thinly covered arse, causing Sherlock to stomp his right foot with a soft 'ah'. The next swats were just as unyielding, with hardly any time at all between them. A particularly harsh one on the upcurve of Sherlock’s arse elicited a loud yelp from him. When the sixth lash sent him rocking on the ball of his feet, John decided he’d had enough.

‘We’re done,’ John informed him. 

Sherlock’s heavy panting was his only response.

Wanting to give Sherlock some privacy, John went back downstairs. He was feeling relaxed and the good kind of tired.

A few minutes later, Sherlock joined him in the kitchen. Despite his efforts to adjust his clothing and fix his hair, Sherlock looked like he’d just run a marathon. ('Debauched' was the word that came to John's mind.) His movement were stiff, sweat had plastered his hair in strange shapes, his eyes looked a bit glassy, and his face was still flushed.

Sherlock grabbed the second plastic bottle from the kitchen counter and drank half of it in one long gulp.

‘All right, I need to get back to work,’ John said after a few minutes of silence. ‘I’m glad I could be of help. Let me know how your experiment works out,’

‘My experiment?’ Sherlock slurred, looking and sounding perplexed.

John motioned to the table.

‘The colostomy bags, Sherlock.’

With a satisfied grin, John waved a stunned Sherlock good-bye and headed back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time John paid Sherlock a visit, he was the one in tears. 

It was exactly two months to the day Mary had died, and John could hardly breathe. 

He’d drunk a whole bottle of whisky the night before. John was no stranger to panic attacks, but what he’d experienced had felt like being crushed, trampled, swallowed and spat out into absolute darkness. 

John's day at work had been filled with despair. At around 3, incapable of facing another hour of having to interact with patients, he’d asked Sarah to leave work early for the second time that week. Even picking up Rosie from day care was overwhelming, the thought of imposing his miserable state on his daughter making his stomach turn. Protecting Rosie from the unbearable weight of his grief was the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning. If it wasn’t for her, he wasn’t sure where he’d be right now. So he’d stopped by at 221B to get a grip, but ended up crying fat, warm tears on the carpet instead.

Across the room, Sherlock was looking at him with infinite sadness in his eyes. He pretended to be absorbed by his mobile phone every time John looked up, but when he thought John couldn’t see him, melancholy was written all over his face.

After a while, John saw Sherlock start to fidget. 

‘Did you—?’ Sherlock stuttered. ‘Would you—?’

John blinked in slow motion. His mind blank, he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

‘Is there anything I could do to help?’ Sherlock asked, emphasizing the third word.

John shook his head.

Nothing was ever going to be good again. There was no way out of the pit of terror, heartbreak and pain he’d fallen into.

Sherlock got up and walked across the room to John, stopping two feet away from him. He began fidgeting again and finally declared:

‘I’m going to try something, John. You’ll have to-to bear with me, okay?’

Without waiting for a reply, he knelt down next to John.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing?’

‘I’m going to lie across your lap, and I want you to take out your anger on my arse, can you do that?’

‘I don’t feel any anger, Sherlock. I appreciate what you’re trying to do but—‘

‘You do feel anger. You said it yourself: you blame me for Mary’s death. And I do, too. You simply forgot about it. I want to help you remember. We’ll feel loads better afterwards.’

It was the worst, most wrong-footed deduction to ever come out of Sherlock’s mouth. It was ridiculous and it made no sense, and John was about to let Sherlock know it, in tired, non equivocal terms when he saw Sherlock fumble with his trousers and push them down quickly, half yanking his pants down with them. Sherlock blushed and swiftly pulled his pants back up. A second later, he threw himself in John's general direction, nearly headbutting him in the process. Satisfied that he'd reached his target over John's knees, Sherlock shuffled over a bit to offer better access to John, while looking to balance his torso only supported by his fingers on the floor and his legs suspended in mid air.

‘Sherlock, I really don’t—‘

‘Humour me, John,’ Sherlock answered in a deadpan voice.

So much for not being a petulant child.

John gave up. He drew his arm back and hit Sherlock’s upturned arse with the flat of his hand.

thump

‘You’re insulting me, John,’ Sherlock said from under his hair.

John tried again, swinging with slightly more strength.

‘You are aware that ‘controlled violence’ involves some degree of violence, aren’t you?’

For the third time, John brought his hand down.

Sherlock craned his neck to shoot up a betrayed look at John.

‘Sherlock — I’m sorry, I’m not — I know you’re trying to help, but this isn’t helping.’

Sherlock let himself fall in a puddle on the floor. 

‘Sherlock, I’m really sorry.’

‘’s fine.’

Wait, was he actually apologizing for not spanking Sherlock with enough vigour? John chuckled. In the total weirdness of the scene, he hadn’t felt sad for a few minutes. Confused, shocked, lost for words, but not sad. 

‘You know what?' John said. 'It actually helped a bit, so thanks for that, Sherlock.’

Readjusting his trousers and his shirt, Sherlock looked smug.

‘I expected it might.’

‘I’m never bored around you, you know,’ John added, fondly.

When John left, a few minutes later, he felt strangely relieved, somewhat amused, and very lucky to have a lunatic like Sherlock for a friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and reviews if you feel like it. Constructive criticism is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is the darkest yet. Please check the tags and don't read if this isn't your thing.

A week passed. 

The following Thursday, towards the end of an arduous afternoon at the surgery, John heard a knock on his door.

‘You have a visitor, Dr Watson,’ the receptionist informed him.

John instantly recognized the telltale confused annoyance in Andrew's tone of voice.

He finished writing his note in Mr Khomeini’s chart and stalked to meet Sherlock in the waiting room.

‘You can’t come in here,’ John told him firmly. Since Mary's death, Sarah had been remarkably accommodating with John, and Sherlock bringing unnecessary drama to the surgery was a rotten way to thank her.

‘I need you to be my conductor of light, John,’ Sherlock replied, holding John’s gaze. ‘Lives could be in danger.’

‘Then you’ll just have to wait until the end of my shift in twenty minutes.’

Sherlock huffed in indignation.

‘And I’d rather you wait outside,’ John added hurriedly when he caught sight of Sarah appearing in the waiting room.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest John’s request, but didn't say anything. He spun on his heels and exited the surgery with a swish of his coat.

Fourty minutes later, John was standing in the kitchen at Baker street, looking at a series of enlarged pictures of stab wounds. He meant to make short work of the whole thing and hadn’t even bothered taking off his coat.

‘Why couldn’t you text me the pictures?’ he asked, concentrating on a particularly gruesome view of the victim’s abdominal cavity.

‘Details are what matters. Surely you know that by now, John,’ Sherlock insisted.

Exasperation notwithstanding, John tried his best. He agreed with Sherlock on the approximate height of the stabber. However, his analysis was otherwise inconclusive and John admitted that he had little else to contribute. 

His hands on his hips, Sherlock started pacing around the flat in obvious irritation. John could feel his own frustration swelling, as if contaminated by Sherlock’s restlessness. He flexed and stretched his hands twice in a row.

‘Calm down, Sherlock.’

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face John from behind the kitchen table.

‘Oh John, I envy your placidity. It does make you a bit useless, but it must be very relaxing indeed.'

Over the years of being friends with Sherlock, John had been called many things. Sherlock was a dick. He was rude and arrogant and dismissive. But cruel he was not. On the few occasions he'd been insulted by Sherlock's taunts, John usually managed to avoid escalation by putting an end to the conversation or leaving the flat. 

But then and there, Sherlock's accusation stung terribly. 

Unbeknownst to Sherlock who froze in mid step and recoiled at the sight, John didn't have a plan when he walked towards Sherlock menacingly. It wasn't any less impromptu when he grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, spun him around, and landed two sharp smacks on his arse.

Sherlock gasped in shock.

‘Stay here and shut up,’ John growled before Sherlock had time to voice his fury. Astonishingly, so Sherlock did, though he looked absolutely mutinous.

John shrugged off his coat and crossed the flat to deposit it on the sofa. 

Do not lose control, John thought. Do not lose control.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and made a decision.

‘I think a dose of controlled violence could do you and me a lot of good,' he assessed, crossing the flat back to the kitchen.

John's words caused a shift in Sherlock's demeanour. John couldn't quite read the peculiar expression in his eyes (indignation? relief? both? neither?), so he waited ten seconds for Sherlock to tell him to sod off if he so wished. Instead, Sherlock nodded once.

'All right, then,' John said on both their behalves.

The set up only took a few moments. Sherlock allowed John to guide him in front of the kitchen counter and to push him face down until he was bent over it. He then tensed up but didn't attempt to block him when John reached around his waist to undo his trousers, letting them fall on the ground, or when John pushed the tail of his purple shirt out of the way. 

John's right hand found its way to the small of Sherlock’s back, in a position that was quickly becoming familiar. Seconds later, his left hand began delivering a volley of harsh slaps to Sherlock’s arse in a sustained tempo. Following a beat required concentration, which, John thought, would stop his anger spiralling out of control. A slap on the right cheek, a three-second pause; a slap on the left cheek, a three-second pause; a slap in the centre, a three-second pause; repeat.

SMACK! (one) 

SMACK! (two) 

SMACK! (three) 

The hard slaps rained on Sherlock's arse with clock-like precision. It required no more dexterity than usual on John's part, but, for a reason he couldn't fathom, spanking Sherlock wasn't quite as enjoyable as it generally was. 

After the first couple of minutes, Sherlock started shifting his weight from leg to leg, which John countered by increasing the pressure on his back. The gesture forced Sherlock to arch his spine, giving John access to his previously untouched sit-spots. Let’s see how placid this feels, the doctor in John thought. Pulling his arm back, he smacked the under curve of Sherlock’s bottom and the top of his thighs in upward motions. 

‘ow ow ow ow OW'

Ah, John thought. That's more like it. 

Gasping and huffing and puffing, Sherlock was now twisting his hips frantically. John took no pity; if anything, he made his blows sharper, without falling out of rhythm once. 

SMACK! (sit-spot on Sherlock's right cheek)

SMACK! (sit-spot on Sherlock's left cheek)

SMACK! (both sit-spots and upper thighs)

One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.

After another minute of scalding whacks, John took a step back to inspect his handiwork. Under the line of Sherlock's pants, his upper thighs were painted a raspberry colour, and John thought he could feel the heat radiating from them.

Not so useless after all. 

As usual, even after John had stopped the assault on his bottom, Sherlock stayed in position, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly; however, John didn't expect what came out of Sherlock’s mouth next.

‘What did you just say, Sherlock?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I need to make sure.’

‘I said I can take more,’ Sherlock repeated, enunciating with care.

‘Hand or belt?’ John asked.

‘Belt,’ came the unmistakeable answer.

‘All right, but you’re going to have to give me a minute to catch my breath.’

While John did just that, Sherlock slowly folded his arms on the surface of the counter and rested his head, which he turned to the side, on top of his makeshift pillow.

John squatted down and removed Sherlock’s belt from his trousers.

‘You sure about this?’ 

It's not that John was opposed to it. He could still feel his own pent-up stress and frustration and, if the previous times were anything to go by, giving Sherlock a belting would rid him of some of it. But he also wanted absolute confirmation from Sherlock.

‘Sure.’

John returned his right hand to Sherlock's back in a grounding gesture and let the belt fly.

The first lash had Sherlock let out a loud ‘ah’.

The second caught Sherlock’s sit-spots and he yelped in pain.

Two strikes later, Sherlock was drumming his feet and crying.

John paused, giving him ample time to say 'No more!', but his tacit query was met with nothing but obstinate silence.

On and on he swung the belt, feeling his own anger being drained out of him little by little, while Sherlock’s noises of pain changed in pitch and in intensity, first ascending and then descending, until finally they dissolved into soft whimpers. 

It took about twenty lashes for John's arm to start getting tired from the exertion. By that time, Sherlock had sagged limply on the kitchen counter and was taking what John gave him, all energy apparently spanked right out of him.

'Three more, Sherlock,' John announced.

The last strikes, applied with considerable strength, elicited loud grunts from John and broken sobs from Sherlock. When the belt clattered on the floor, they both exhaled loudly.

Sherlock’s shirt was riding high on his back, revealing a thin layer of sweat and dark blotches where John had kept his hand. Along with the red ovals under Sherlock’s pants, welts were visible all over the uncovered area of his arse.

‘You all right, Sherlock?’ John asked, almost shyly.

‘It... rather blows the cobwebs away.’

John didn’t stay long after that. That night, he slept really well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to get this one right. 
> 
> I painted myself into a corner in Burnt Bridges when I said that there was some spanking every time they met AND that the day after Sherlock's harshest spanking, John saw that he was a bit stiff. So next day spanking it had to be.
> 
> I'm posting it, but I might make minor changes in the near future.
> 
> Thanks for reading! You're all lovely and amazing!

The next day, John wasn’t in the best of mood. He had the day off from work and no special plan. Usually, that spelled sadness and anxiety for him. 

At 8:00, he dropped Rosie off at day care and went grocery shopping. 

Every ten minutes or so, he checked his phone, willing it to deliver whatever passed as a normal text from Sherlock. A picture of a disfigured body, perhaps, or a series of meaningless letters forming a cypher John had no knowledge of. Any kind of distraction, really. But no luck.

John went home to put away the grocery, made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, sat down in the kitchen, ate, got up, tried to read a book, couldn’t concentrate, thought of hoovering the house, didn’t feel like it, and eventually decided to go for a walk. 

He didn’t remember making Baker street his destination, but that’s exactly where his forty minute walk took him. Muscle memory will do that, he thought. 

Standing in front of 221B, John oscillated on the pavement for a few moments, and settled on ringing the bell. 

A fast tune on the violin poured out of the window. John looked up.

‘Use your key, John,’ Sherlock called. 

Overnight, the flat had turned into a gigantic mess. Books, chairs, experiments, and countless objects littered the floor and every vaguely horizontal surface; yesterday’s pictures of the stab wounds had multiplied and now decorated the walls.

‘New photos or new victims?’ John asked Sherlock, who stopped playing abruptly.

‘Both.’

‘I— I can have a look if you like. I’ve got time today.’

‘Please yourself,’ Sherlock replied, embracing the room in a broad movement of his bow.

The next half hour saw John deep in his thoughts, studying every picture in scrupulous detail. From time to time, Sherlock appeared at his side, squinting at one of the photos, and receding after a moment. Sherlock’s movements were lacking their usual grace and ease, and he didn’t sit down once, John noted but decided not to press the subject.

However meticulous John’s observation was, nothing he saw in the pictures was news to Sherlock. 

In recognition of his defeat, John slumped on the sofa, grabbed his old gun from underneath the coffee table and started playing with the safety.

Hang the fuck on.

‘Sherlock — why was my gun lying on the floor in your flat?’ John asked in shock, his breathing instantly becoming shallow.

‘Mm? Oh, you must have left it there.’

‘Left it? I took it with me when I moved out after you committed suicide.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘Sherlock, why is my gun here?’

Gun. 

Gunshot. 

Death by gunshot. 

Mary.

Suddenly the explanation didn’t matter at all.

John tried to keep images of the aquarium at bay, but a wave of anxiety washed over him. His hearing became muffled, as if he was under water, and the room started spinning.

‘John! John!’ 

John felt a hand brushing his knee. Somebody spoke his name in a soft, concerned voice. Contrasting patterns and light flooded his vision. 

‘Water— I need water,’ John forced the words out, leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder to push himself off the sofa. 

‘I’ll get it for y—’

The flat around him a blur, John got up and stumbled to the kitchen. He opened the faucet and ran his hands under the spray; the cold water felt good. Heaving a long, stabilizing breath, John used a towel to apply cool wet touches to his forehead and the back of his neck. Better. 

John put away the towel, and only then did he notice that it was drenched in red. Terror struck and the fuzz in his brain rose to overwhelming levels. 

He fell over, but strong arms caught him and dragged him to his chair.

The next thing John knew, Sherlock was standing next to him, holding a glass of water. 

‘Got anything stronger?’ John asked. ‘Not drugs,’ he added.

Sherlock left his side and came back a minute later with a glass of whisky. Ingesting alcohol in this state was stupid, but it certainly felt like the right thing to do.

John took a sip. The familiar burn inside his mouth was welcome.

‘It came from your hands. The blood, John. Before you passed out, you scratched yourself pretty badly.’

John looked down at his hands. Shallow cuts ran across his palms in crisscross patterns. The skin was raised and looked inflamed.

‘Can I see?’ Sherlock asked, his voice a bit guarded.

John held out his hand, which Sherlock took, his touch soft and reverent. 

‘You’re the doctor, but I think we should clean that.’

John nodded and during the next few minutes, he watched Sherlock disinfect his hands, put plasters on the cuts, and wipe the blood off his face. 

‘Thank you,’ he said.

A small smile crept onto the corners of Sherlock’s mouth.

‘I don’t remember taking your gun,’ Sherlock said after a beat. He sounded upset. 'To be honest, I don’t remember much from the past few weeks. I was high as a kite most of the time. I know I had a gun, but it wasn’t yours. Maybe I had two, I don’t know.’ 

John nodded mindlessly. He didn’t care. After feeling boneless from fainting - twice -, iron-like tension was claiming his body again. His shoulders and neck felt stiff and strained, and his hands kept curling back into fists by their own volition.

The human mind really works in mysterious ways, John thought. He had no problem looking at the pictures of the stab wounds. He’d done it in a professional, clinical, capacity. But he couldn’t stand the sight of a gun and his own blood. John gritted his teeth.

He couldn't bear it anymore. He needed his mind totally and completely obliterated. He needed peace and silence from the devastation of thinking and feeling.

Sherlock crossed the room and started ghosting around the desk, looking every bit as flustered and agitated as John felt. He cast John several furtive, sidelong glances which John caught.

John’s eyes rested on him, and then on the desk, and then back on Sherlock. Sherlock held his gaze, waiting for John to speak up.

The bundle of nerves John presently called his body and his mind would draw comfort from it, that much was obvious. Also, John found himself enticed by the notion of the symmetry it would provide Sherlock and him: given the sorry state of John’s hand and Sherlock’s arse, they would, for once, be even.

‘I’ve got two conditions.’

Sherlock didn’t blink.

‘No belt.’ 

A short nod.

‘No pants. I want to be able to see the damage on you.’

Sherlock stared at him wordlessly for so long John thought he might have retreated to his mind palace as an alternative - better - place to be. 

John's request really was a shot in the dark. He'd seen Sherlock naked multiple times, but this was different. Sherlock wouldn't be lazily wrapped in a sheet or a towel with soft bits sporadically hanging out. He would be completely naked from the waist down, presenting his backside, a position not only vulnerable but undignified. Still, after yesterday, the condition wasn't negotiable.

‘Acceptable.’

John quickly got up as Sherlock whirled around to face the desk, letting out a sigh which sounded very much like relief to John’s ears. Sherlock pushed the unsteady pile of books and test tubes this way and that and started divesting himself of his clothing.

Sherlock’s movements became slow and measured. His trousers came off first, then he hooked his thumbs in his pants and bared himself, hissing softly when the fabric brushed against the tender skin of his arse. John winced: Sherlock’s cheeks and upper thighs still looked red and swollen. And they hadn’t even started.

As for John, every movement made his hand hurt from the cuts.

This wouldn’t take very long.

Sherlock leaned forward a little and rested his palms on the desk.

Without asking for permission, John carefully wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s waist and felt Sherlock relax into the touch.

John raised his left hand and brought it down. He exclaimed at the sharp jolt of electricity that exploded in his hand when it came into contact with Sherlock’s arse. In his arms, Sherlock cried out and bucked. It wasn’t even a hard blow, but then it didn’t need to be.

Not very long at all.

‘Ten,’ John assessed.

slap

slap

slap

slap

Each blow made them jump, then clench, then relax.

After the fifth blow, Sherlock crossed his ankles and hung his head, earning John a short reprieve he used to try and alleviate the pain in his throbbing mess of a hand.

slap

slap

slap

slap

slap

They didn't break position right away, delighting in the silence and immobility.

When Sherlock started to shift, John squeezed his side and let him go.

It took them several minutes to regain composure, meeting again in the kitchen for a glass of water. Between sips, Sherlock and John looked at each other with mingled protectiveness and appreciation. All tension had been diffused, and, in that moment, all that remained, apart from a dull ache in their appendages, was their friendship.


	5. Chapter 5

‘Hush.’

The shaking in Sherlock’s shoulders slowed down and he made a visible effort to relax.

'Deep breath, Sherlock.'

John took a moment to rub his lower back soothingly, and then swung again, hard.

Sherlock was briefly shocked into total immobility, and then he started sniggering again.

‘I said ‘Hush’, Sherlock! And hold still!’ 

John was genuinely peeved. 

Sherlock had been bent over the desk for at least two minutes now, his trousers around his ankles, getting his arse smacked, and dissolving into frequent fits of giggles. If not the pain inflicted by John’s hand, then one would think that the disgrace of the position would suffice to sober him. But not Sherlock bloody Holmes, no. 

Two weeks had passed since the last spanking. Sherlock and John had texted a lot, but hadn’t seen each other in person. After Sherlock had solved the case of the serial stabber (thank Christ for that), he’d left for Londonderry to investigate some stolen art. Meanwhile, John had been feeling a lot better and he’d wanted to spend more time with Rosie. Now, every night, they took a short walk in the park, ate dinner together, had a bath (technically, only Rosie did, but you couldn’t tell given the state of John’s clothes and hair afterwards), and then read a bedtime story. Rosie was learning to express her likes (bananas, rabbits, and large cranes) and dislikes (vanilla, the colour purple, raincoats, and plastic cutlery) with much enthusiasm and was a joy to be around.

So it was Sherlock’s and John’s first get-together in a while, and all had gone awry when, after a dramatic build-up involving the rolling up of sleeves and the lowering of trousers, John had landed the first smack all wrong. Sherlock had sneezed at the last second and the blow had caught his hip at a weird angle rather than his arse, causing John to almost lose his balance. Since then, John had tried to re establish his authority through stinging slaps, but the moment was just gone. 

John changed tactics. He raised his hand but didn’t bring it down right away, intent on instilling some gravity by way of tense anticipation in Sherlock. In response, Sherlock clenched his arse twice in a deliberately taunting manner, and burst out laughing.

‘Do you want me to stop, then?’ John asked, his voice stern.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John, I’ll be good,’ Sherlock answered hurriedly, amusement audible in his voice. 

John drew his hand back and smacked him twice in a row.

It really wasn't working.

‘Do you want a cup of tea instead?’ John offered. Tea sounded good.

‘Did you bring milk like I asked?’ Sherlock inquired suspiciously, craning his neck on the desk to frown at John.

‘Yes, Sherlock, I did.’

‘Oh! I think Mrs Hudson bought more of those Moroccan biscuits from last time!’ 

Enthused, Sherlock rose from the desk and picked his trousers distractedly on his way to the kitchen. He then proceeded to open every single drawer and cupboard, making as much noise as he possibly could.

The rest of the afternoon was very pleasant. John and Sherlock chatted, read newspapers and magazines, and had countless cups of tea and biscuits. Sherlock tagged along when John picked up Rosie from child care and he took on the responsibility of reading Rosie's bedtime story, comfortably seated on the couch with the little girl in his arms. Lost in the contemplation of the pair, John didn't stop grinning the entire time.

When Sherlock left, John felt a twinge of sadness. He longed for Rosie to be cherished in a loving family where he wasn't the only parent. Not that he felt like dating at all. In fact, after a light supper and a tall glass of juice, John went through his phone and deleted Elizabeth’s phone number. There simply was no room for her in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was on John’s mind almost every waking minute of the next two days. During one of his and Rosie’s daily walks, it occurred to John that, impossible and infuriating though he may be, Sherlock was effectively the most important (adult) person in his life. (‘Light of his life’ were the exact words that came to John’s mind, which he immediately blamed on the striking bluish air of that particular winter day.)

Given the plans John entertained, he couldn’t bring Rosie to 221B, so he waited until the weekend was over and Rosie was back at child care to pay Sherlock a visit. 

John unlocked the door to the flat and was greeted by the quiet rumble of the shower. Now was as good a time as ever to see what kind of experiment Sherlock was conducting and to phone bomb disposal should the need arise; John occupied the next ten minutes cautiously sniffing and not touching the various petri dishes and test tubes covering the kitchen table and counter, as well as the better part of the living room desk. What he saw reassured him that whatever Sherlock was doing (something about pigments and dyes, apparently) was disgusting, but harmless.

As John heard the bathroom door open, he thought it preferable to make his presence known, lest Sherlock should appear in the nude.

‘Sherlock, I’m here,’ he called from the living room.

A second later, Sherlock walked in in his second best dressing gown, his hair wet and shiny, and his brow furrowed.

‘Dublin,’ he said, looking determined.

‘Dublin?’

‘Yes, Dublin. Sallymount avenue. It’s in Ranelagh. Aoife Burk, she hid it all at her sister’s house.’ 

Sherlock crouched down in front of his laptop, which was balanced on the right arm of the sofa, and started typing furiously.

‘Right. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Sherlock looked up from his computer.

‘Keep up, John,’ he said, pointedly. ‘I explained everything this morning,’ 

‘I was at work this morning.’

‘It’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening.’

John chuckled. Though the details changed every time, they had this exact conversation regularly. Or used to, anyway.

‘So you solved a case, then?’

‘Not a case, the case.’

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, set it down on the floor, and got up. 

‘How long are you staying?’ Sherlock asked John.

‘I don’t know. Do you have any plans?’

‘Yes. Why?’ 

‘I—I was thinking that last time I—uh—spanked you—’ John looked away when he said the word ‘It wasn’t all that cathartic. I was wondering if maybe you’d want a do-over.’

John’s wasn’t actually sure why he was offering; he wasn’t feeling angry or stressed out. 

‘How predictable,’ Sherlock said, looking smug. 

Predictable, John noted; not boring. He didn’t say boring.

‘If you have plans, we can—’

‘I can make the time.’

John’s eyes flew to the desk, then the kitchen counter, then the kitchen table. The experiments would need to be moved (‘Tedious,’ Sherlock would probably say). There was always John’s old room, but...

‘You’re not a petulant child, and I’m not—I’m not calling you one, but—’

Sherlock looked even more smug.

‘—it wouldn't be hardship for you to treat me like one.’

‘I suppose,’ John conceded. ‘Unless you’re uncomfortable with the idea—’

‘Oh do relax, John, I’m no blushing virgin,’ Sherlock said, his voice full of snark.

Of course, Sherlock was right. At this point in the game, John’s suggestion was verging on ridiculous.

John cleared his throat. 

‘So what do you think?’.

‘Correct me, Doctor,’ Sherlock retorted with a pert smile. 

John crossed the room and sat down on the sofa, spreading his legs a bit to accommodate the length of Sherlock’s body. 

Like last time, Sherlock knelt down next to John before he bent over to lie across John’s lap. Unlike last time, John and Sherlock shifted and adjusted until they found the most comfortable position which, it appeared, was John holding Sherlock flush against his chest, an arm snuggly wrapped around his waist. Sherlock shuffled a bit and arranged his torso and his legs on either side of John on the sofa. It was quite intimate, John realized, particularly given the fact that Sherlock wasn’t wearing anything under his dressing gown, that much was obvious from the way the delicate fabric hugged the curve of his arse. John also noted that, in his lap, Sherlock felt strong and solid and warm. Interesting how one notices such things.

John brought his hand down in a resounding whack and was surprised to find that, because of the position, he felt it vibrating, reverberating through his own legs. After the aftershock had died down, John started the spanking in earnest; every time he smacked the upturned arse in front of him, Sherlock’s hips rolled slightly forward, and then backward, drawing John into a dance whose rhythm was set to Sherlock’s rocking motion, his hmph’s, and his ah’s. Learning from the memorable session in the kitchen, John focused his attention on the upcurve of Sherlock’s bottom, building what he was sure was quickly becoming a scalding fire. After the first dozen slaps, John observed that the fabric of Sherlock’s dressing gown was rucking up on his legs; he didn't try to pull it down.

A couple minutes passed and John marvelled at the newly acquired endurance of his hand. He wouldn’t have lasted that long a few weeks ago. In celebration, he made the blows more forceful and changed the angle to mete out mostly upward slaps, causing Sherlock to start wriggling in his lap. 

‘Had enough?’ he asked, resting his hand on Sherlock’s arse. 

Sherlock shook his head.

‘Do you want the belt?’

Sherlock shook his head again.

‘Shall I just keep going for a bit?’

A pause. Hesitation.

‘You could do it bare if you wanted.’ 

Sherlock’s voice was small, and kind of muffled.

‘That— would hurt a lot,’ John stupidly declared.

‘’s supposed to hurt. That’s the point. It stops me thinking.’

Now John was curious.

‘Is this about being bored and needing a new case?’ 

‘’s complicated. Can we talk some other time?’

Yeah, John thought, they really should. However mad the premise of their attempt at catharsis, lately, it seemed that it was taking on a different meaning. John enjoyed it; he enjoyed it immensely. It allowed him to blow off some steam. Also, John reflected, it had to do with the fact that it was rekindling his and Sherlock's friendship. Still, they couldn’t go on without discussing it much longer.

‘You’ll tell me if it gets too much?’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock bit back.

All right, then.

‘Lift up,’ he asked Sherlock.

John reached under Sherlock’s belly and undid the belt single-handedly. He then proceeded to carefully fold the dressing gown out of the way. Sherlock’s arse was a rosy pink; it wasn't... unpretty.

‘Brace yourself,’ John said, before resuming the assault on Sherlock’s arse. 

With each new slap, John could see the flesh jiggle and ripple, and the flash of the white imprint of his hand on Sherlock’s reddening cheeks. In response, Sherlock gasped, writhed, and kicked his legs out. John tried to tighten his grip around his waist, but a particularly nasty slap at the top of his right thigh had Sherlock buck hard enough that his dressing gown flew over his back.

John’s eyes automatically flicked up to the expense of Sherlock’s pale skin, a vivid contrast to the deep red his arse was turning.

The shock of what he saw was so unexpected that John felt like he’d just been hit by a ton of bricks.

Scars. Irregular lines, a multitude of them, overlapping in random patterns. 

‘What happened to your back?’ John asked, stopping the spanking instantly. 

Sherlock tensed up in John’s lap.

‘Don’t spoil the mood.’

The blood draining from John’s face, he forced Sherlock to sit up next to him on the sofa, the contact to his arse making Sherlock flinch in obvious discomfort. His dressing gown was now almost completely open; Sherlock’s face and his upper chest were flushed; his hair looked crazy; some wetness showed that he'd been crying; further down, his cock was exposed in a nest of dark brown hair.

‘It was a very long time ago.’

‘You were—tortured?’

‘If you want to put a label on it, yes.’

‘Wh—when? Where?’ John heard his voice break. ‘Why?’

Sherlock’s face hardened.

‘It’s fine, John. Like I said, it was a very long time ago.’

‘You— you were tortured and you allow me to hold you down and beat you?’

‘You weren’t holding me down,’ Sherlock snapped back. 

‘Sherlock, why the hell did you agree to— to any of this?’

‘John—’ Sherlock said, warningly.

‘No, please, I need to know.’

Sherlock heaved an impatient sigh. 

‘Is it the guilt? Or— or boredom? Or something else?’ John insisted for the second time that day. None of it made sense anymore. 

‘I need to go to the airport'. 

'You—what? The airport? Why? Where are you going? Sherlock!' 

But Sherlock had got up and disappeared into the corridor. John stayed on the sofa, completely stunned and despondent for what felt like the umpteenth time in recent memory.

When Sherlock came back, a few minutes later, he was fully dressed and holding a small bag.

‘Don’t overthink things, John. That’s what we’re trying to remedy.’

With that, he walked out of the flat, leaving John feeling nauseous.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, folks!
> 
> I couldn't have kept it up much longer, but this is still bitter sweet. 
> 
> I hope you lovely readers enjoyed it. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, reviews and kudos are much appreciated.

John didn’t know how long Sherlock was planning to stay in Dublin. Over the following week, he texted him three times.

‘Hi! How are things? Are you coming home soon?’

‘Hi! Rosie has been crying for hours. She could use one of your stories and I could use some booze.’

‘Hi! Just saw Greg. He says hey. Give us a call when you get back.’

Sherlock didn’t respond. As far as John knew, maybe he just deleted his texts after reading the first word.

Tapping his pen on his desk, John was starting to contemplate extreme measures, namely asking Mycroft about his brother’s whereabouts, when Andrew knocked on his door.

‘Visitor to see you, Dr Watson.’

John frowned. Andrew didn’t sound pissed off, so it couldn’t be Sherlock; but then who else would show up uninvited at the surgery without texting or calling first?

It turned out that it was, in fact, Sherlock. 

With Sarah at a conference all day, John allowed himself to greet Sherlock warmly in the waiting room. 

‘I will see you now, Mr Holmes.’

Sherlock snorted and followed him into his office.

‘How was Dublin?’ John asked, closing the door behind them and sitting down, indicating the patient's chair to Sherlock, who ignored it.

‘Found the paintings.’

‘Good—that’s good. Got anything else on?’

‘No.’

Sherlock was playing with the tongue depressors on the shelf, his back to John.

‘Do you need any of those?’

‘No.’

Sherlock looked and sounded on edge. John shifted a bit in his chair and decided to ask anyway, mentally preparing for bloody hellfire.

‘Do you want to uh— talk about last time?’

Sherlock dropped the depressors, spun around, and looked down at John.

‘I’m not fragile, John.’

‘N—never said you were.’

‘I don’t need you checking up on me or— or—or coddling me.’

‘I don’t—’

Sherlock raised his hand to silence him.

‘You’re always the one with the requests and the conditions. This time, we’re doing things my way. This is the plan. I want you to come to the flat straight after your shift.’

Though implicit, the general idea was very clear. However, Sherlock’s phrasing was ambiguous as to who would administer the controlled violence. John searched Sherlock’s eyes for the answer, but his deductions were soon interrupted by the realization that he didn’t care very much. Either way was fine by him.

‘All right—all right. I’ll come.’

‘Good.’

After Sherlock left, John saw seven patients: four colds, one skin rash, one stomach flu and one blood pressure follow-up. It was difficult to stay concentrated, and John spent quite a bit of energy trying to hide the signs of his impatience for the remainder of his working day.

At 4, he grabbed his coat and made his way to Baker Street, torn between dread and excitement.

When he arrived, Sherlock was going through a series of pictures on his laptop. John noted that, with the exception of said laptop, the surface of the desk was mostly cleared.

‘Hey,’ he said.

John shrugged off his coat and went to sit on the sofa. After walking in the cold outside, the living room felt warm and inviting. A fire had been lit; the wood cracked and sparked, and soft shadows were dancing on the walls.

‘How— do you want to proceed?’

Sherlock made no answer. He clicked at something three times, got up, and brought his laptop to the coffee table. Straightening up, Sherlock then stood in front of John, resolution written all over his face.

‘Before we begin, I want to reiterate that however you chose to interpret last time’s events, the beatings are entirely consensual and always have been. I’m not submitting to them to please you. Do you understand?’

‘Y—yes—’

‘You have found that, a few years ago, I was interrogated. It was a very— unpleasant experience. One I do not wish to repeat, ever. And one I have no intention to discuss right now. I appreciate your concern, John, but know that this experience belongs in the past and it has no bearing on our agreement.’

John could tell these were at least partially rehearsed words, but he didn’t doubt Sherlock’s sincerity. In Afghanistan, he’d been around soldiers who’d been tortured, and most of them refused to talk about it, seeing it as an embarrassment or a weakness of character. If Sherlock was adamant to make it a non-issue, John wouldn’t force him to revisit the subject just to assuage his own negative feelings about it.

He nodded once to let Sherlock know he understood.

‘How do you want to proceed?’ he asked again, keeping the devastation he felt out of his voice.

‘Like every other time. I’m going over the desk and you whack me until we’ve had enough.’

Business as usual, then.

John got up from the sofa and felt the warmth of the fire on his skin as he approached the desk. 

Sherlock was already divested of his jacket. He removed his trousers and leaned over the desk, planting his elbows firmly on its surface. John didn’t comment on it, intent on allowing Sherlock to make every decision today. He folded Sherlock's shirt tails out of the way, placed his right hand on Sherlock’s lower back and set out to begin.

As the strikes landed on Sherlock’s arse, John forced himself to relax, barely registering that Sherlock hadn’t started squirming as he usually did. Ignoring the searing burn in his left hand, he continued smacking Sherlock’s cheeks methodically; eventually, his discomfort having reached decidedly unpleasant levels, John let go of Sherlock’s back and continued hitting with his right hand; it was a bit awkward and the angle didn’t feel right. 

John paused for a minute, out of breath and feeling hot. Stoicism held no appeal to him and he certainly wouldn't feign it; not today of all days.

‘My hand is killing me. If you want to continue, I’m going to have to use something else, Sherlock.’

‘Okay.’

Not the belt. There was no way he’d take a belt to Sherlock. It was the only concession John would make to his own feelings; the belt would remind him of the laceration scars and he couldn't afford the luxury of a panic attack, what with Sherlock demanding a mighty wallop. After a quick review of his options, John offered:

‘Wooden spoon or slipper.’

Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

‘Slipper.’

‘All right.’

John crossed to the fireplace and picked up the Persian slipper. He emptied it of its content (tobacco products and nothing more, he noted) and flexed it experimentally; it would pack a serious sting. Back at the desk, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

‘Ready?’

‘Mm.’

It only took one smack with the new implement to elicit a loud AH! from Sherlock, who clenched his cheeks and twisted his hips. John tightened his grip on him and resumed the onslaught, not easing up one bit. At number 5, the signs that Sherlock couldn't take anymore were becoming more and more visible; he half announced, half proposed:

‘Six more.’

They weren't done yet; Sherlock needed to be pushed a little more.

‘Ten,’ Sherlock countered.

'Ten.'

The loud cracks filled the room, while John and Sherlock shifted and grunted in unison. Their proximity added to the warmth from the exertion and the fire, and at number 10, John briefly wondered if he wasn't burning up with fever.

‘You all right?’ John asked. He allowed himself to cradle Sherlock's waist for a minute, then let his arm slide away gently.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock got up and stretched. His eyes were red; his shirt was drenched with sweat and tears, and looked a mess; he looked flushed and—yeah, debauched really was the right word, John thought, concurrently realizing in horror that some definite stirring was taking place in his groin. 

There was no time to ponder on the causes and hardly enough to bring it away from view. Desperate to hide not only his erection but also the furious blushing he could feel spreading on his cheeks, John stalked to the kitchen to have some water, seeking refuge in the familiarity of the gesture.

‘Thank you.’

Sherlock’s voice sounded a bit breathless and a lot discomposed.

‘Any time,’ John answered, tight-lipped. He could feel Sherlock's eyes burrowing into him.

‘I don't think you're fragile, you know. Never have,’ he added.

‘I know now.’ There was a small smile in Sherlock's voice.

John started relaxing and after a few minutes, his erection did, too.

They remained standing and looking at each other for a long time, fondly, longingly.

The fire kept cracking between them. Downstairs, the door creaked and Mrs Hudson's footsteps resonated gently. Soft laughter floated up from the street, kept to almost a murmur by the windows and thick curtains. Life was happening all around them, but John felt like the whole world began and ended within the walls of 221B.


End file.
